It Started With a Brush
by Lovely Kacey Faith
Summary: 100 prompts consisting of Amebela. [not very much so in the first one, but, definitely further on yes c:]


**_Introduction_**

It was seventh grade when they first met, and (the summer going into seventh grade, but more or less) when he was introduced to the wonders of art.

That summer, he had gone to see his dad. His parents were divorced, and he lived with his mother whereas his brother lived with his father. So, during the summer, and sometimes weekends, he would get his mom to drive him over or have his dad pick him up and spend time with both his dad and brother. Other times, Matthew, his brother, would come over to see himself and his mother. And it wasn't that far of a drive - maybe a half hour, tops. The boys both went to the same school, so of course it wasn't terribly far.

He went over to his father's house one June afternoon, and he was planning on spending the night. His mother had pursed her lips when he brought it up to her, but once he pulled out the puppy eyes and the "pleaaaaasee moomm?" - she gave in. She gave him a kiss on both cheeks (because of his whines) before he got out of the car, and a reminder to brush his teeth both that night and the next morning. And, to also, not stay up _too_ late. (It was a routine whenever he would spend the night - anywhere.)

He had knocked twice and then rung the doorbell - numerous amount of times, because when he waited a few moments, his dad didn't come and his mom was still in the driveway waiting for him to go inside. He found himself still pressing the doorbell as the door opened and he was snapped out of it when he heard a laugh and his father's voice ask, "Aimin' for the new record of ringing the doorbell, Al?"

His hand dropped down, and when he turned his gaze to his father, he saw that he was wearing old, baggy clothes, a smile clear on his face. The white shirt he was wearing was tucked in his sweatpants, and it was covered in colorful splotches of paint - ranging from a bright sunny yellow to the darkest black he's ever seen. "You bet," he answered, glancing over his shoulder to see that his mother was _finally_ backing out of the driveway. "What've you been up to though? You got paint all over you."

"You noticed?" he chuckled, motioning for his son to come inside.

Alfred nodded, taking the needed steps inside, fingers curling around the straps of his backpack. He heard the door click shut behind him, and he started to walk to the dinning room. "Yeah, and where's Mattie?" he asked, shrugging off his backpack and setting it down on one of the chairs, then poking his head in the kitchen where his dad was sticking his head inside the fridge.

"Over a friend's house, spending the night there too," he answered, clacks of glass being heard. Alfred leant against the wall behind him, arms folding across his chest. Well, he would be spending the night with just his dad - which wasn't terrible, no. He barely saw him enough as it was, so it would be nice to hang out with him.

His father pulled out from the fridge, tossing a water bottle to him which he got, watching as the fridge door was closed. "Hey, come downstairs with me, I wanna show you something."

Alfred gave a nod as his father started to leave the kitchen, turning just so he was right on his tail. The door to the basement was opened, and then the two of them descended down the stairs, but Alfred came to a stop at the third stair from the bottom when he was able to see just what exactly was in the basement.

There were canvases all around, some clean and ready to take whatever was going through the artist's mind, whereas some had paint on them. Most were scenery, ranging from a beach with the ocean waves coming in a slow way, taking their time to go back out, to the tips of mountain tops where snow was gathering up and giving off an innocent feeling - a beautiful feeling. It all left Alfred breathless.

He never thought his father would be a painter - he didn't think of him as such. He was always helping him with baseball, throwing a ball back and forth with one another and pitching to him to work on his batting as well, throwing him ground balls and balls that were popped up in the air, or ones that were coming towards him straight at the chest, sometimes to the sides where he would have to jump from side to side to be able to catch it. His father was all about sports. He would always watch football on Sundays and root on their home team, and the home team baseball games as well.

But he painted too.

Slowly, he descended the rest of the stairs, not noticing the big smile on his father's face for his gaze was glued to the paintings before him. Perhaps, they weren't the best, like something Leonardo da Vinci would have done, but they still amazed him with the talent and effort put into it. And when he saw a painting that was sitting beside one that was a meadow - he stopped once again.

It was a painting of his mother, and he wasn't so sure when it was painted but it was gorgeous. He captured the way the corners of her eyes crinkled when she was smiling too big, how her eyes would close when it was a laugh escaping past her lips. Her hair was up in a bun, and he remembered how some strands of hair would always find their way out, hanging on the sides of her face, hanging in front of her when she was bent over a bit as she clutched her stomach when laughing too hard.

"Dad," he began, blinking a few times before turning to face his father. "These are all amazing."

Alfred never thought for his father to be the modest type but when he looked back to him, he saw that he could be - and it surprised him that he still learnt new things about him after 11 years of his life. "They're not that-"

"They so are!" Alfred countered back, throwing his arms up to gesture at the paintings all around the room. "I mean look at this! I didn't think I'd ever witness the day you would do something like this I mean-"

He never did directly cut him off, but when he moved to pick up a paint brush, and Alfred's voice died off in his throat. He thought he would start painting again, but he didn't, for he turned back around and walked up to him, holding the paint brush out for him to take. He was baffled for a moment, brows furrowing together in confusion as his sky blue hues stared at the object before him.

A laugh was heard before he spoke, "Take it, Alfred. It's not gonna bite you."

His actions were still a bit hesitant as he plucked the paint brush from his father's hand, examining it in his hands. There wasn't much more to examine to it - that much he knew. It had it's bristles, some sticking out to the sides as if it had been used, and yet, it didn't look like it had really even been touched, much less dipped in a color of paint and brought down to a canvas.

By the time he looked back up, his father's back was turned to him, paint brush in hand and gently brushing a vibrant yellow onto the canvas before him. "It's always fun to try somethin' new," he began, and Alfred could hear the smile in his words. "And sometimes, you'll really learn to love it - it'll then become a part of you."

Cerulean hues flickered back down to the brush in his hand, blinking once as if he was mesmerized, completely and utterly lost in deep thought. And for the most part, he was. He was still taking it in that his father had been painting this whole time and he wanted to ask when he began painting, if it was back when him and his mother were still married or just recently - or maybe even before then. He wanted to ask if Matthew knew, or if no one knew and he was the only one and -

He wasn't quite sure when he found himself right in front of a blank canvas, nor was he sure when he dipped the tip of the paint brush in a dark blue. But what he was sure of, was the new found love for something he never would've dreamed of doing, something he could never _see_ himself doing.

And it didn't take long before he was completely immersed in his thoughts; in the painting he was composing in front of him.

* * *

He went into seventh grade with a new love for art.

His father gave him a sketch book that day, before he left his house, telling him to try it out and see how he liked sketching. _"You seemed to have really enjoyed yourself," he grinned, ruffling up the boy's hair. "So try sketching, see what happens."_

And he already knew he was downright _terrible._

Absolutely terrible. He couldn't draw better than a five year old. And he knew this for a fact, for his neighbor's had a little boy, Peter, and he would sometimes be dropped off to be watched before his mother ran off to work, apologizing profusely of how none of her other sons were home, and neither was her husband. Alfred's mother would cut her off, giving her a kind smile and telling her that Peter wasn't going to be a bother, and she was always - mostly, sometimes Peter got on Alfred's last nerves, but it was rare - right.

Peter had drawn a picture of one of his brother's, and it's odd, because he's never seen him before - he only ever sees Peter and his mother leave that house. But apparently, his brother that he drew was only a year older than Alfred and going to the same school, which baffled him. His mother, whom was sitting at the table with them, would only smile, shaking her head, _"Alfred, you've seen him before. You see him all the time, maybe you're just _that_ forgetful."_

He left it at that; he wasn't going to argue with his mother. Besides, he knew he was forgetful, but he never forgot what people looked like and who people were - now tests and material he learnt during school, that was a different story. Once summer came, or winter break (and it happened during Thanksgiving break and spring, as well) he would forget whatever they had been learning previously - but it wasn't like he was the only one.

But, Peter could draw better than him, and it angered him because he's five for crying out loud - but that didn't stop him.

Every night before bed, he would sketch something, and soon enough, he needed a new sketch book.

(And he went to his dad for that.

And his dad got him one - another two, actually.)

* * *

But he remembers, as he had been holding onto his sketch book and walking into the school with his brother, whom he happened to catch a hold of before walking in, seeing a girl.

He's never seen this girl before, and he was a bit - _intrigued - _to say the least. Her hair looked to be a grayish color, almost - a platinum blonde. He never caught sight of her eyes, but he still wanted to know more.

"Alfred, are you even listening to me?"

He was snapped out of his thoughts, gaze turning back to Matthew to see he had a brow raised up in question, a questioning look taking over his features. "Something about your crazy next door neighbor's cat?" he tried, giving him a sheepish looking grin. It did get a smile out of Matthew, but also a shake of his head.

"Not quite."

And when he parted ways with his brother, and a dent happened to be made in their first day back, when he found himself sitting down in art class (the class he used to dread, but now, this year, he was looking forward to it) - he saw her again.

He sat beside her, and when he glanced over, he caught sight of her dark blue - _very_ dark blue, but they were beautiful in an innocent way and he's not sure why.

She seemed focused on whatever the teacher was saying, but Alfred was tuning her out - had been tuning her out since he realized he was sitting beside the girl he saw this morning with his brother. He had to admit that she was pretty, and he would at least like to know her name (and perhaps try to be her friend, but name first - that was his top priority) or else it would drive him crazy for the rest of his life. He could have actually listened when the teacher called out names, to see who was who and get to know everyone, but he didn't - he only listened for _his_ name.

"Hey, uhm," the beginning to his sentence was out right when the teacher stopped talking about what they should expect to be doing in this class during the year, and he knew there was no turning back now if she actually heard him, "My name's Alfred."

Her dark blue hues turned their gaze to him, and he could see the look of surprise in her eyes, and all he could do was offer a half smile, because now he felt stupid - she probably thought they would never talk, or at least that he wouldn't introduce himself in such a stupid and shy way. "I was just, uh, wondering what your name was?"

When nothing came out of her mouth, and all she did was stare for another moment, brows furrowing together the slightest bit to show confusion as well, he wanted to just pull out his sketch book and draw and forget this ever happened - but before he could even go to grab for it, she spoke.

"My name is Natalia."

A smile soon graced his features. He didn't think it would be something like Natalia - maybe Sam, or Julia - but Natalia was a nice name, and he wondered if she knew that.

"Well it's nice to meet you, Natalia! Hey, can I call you Nat? And I was wondering if maybe you'd like to be friends because-"

And just like that, he blurted out a bunch of stuff, as if he knew her his whole life. Part of him felt as if he did, but, he knew that was stupid.

* * *

**so I found this 100 prompt thing and wanted to try and do it- so we'll see how this goes! ouo**

**I really like the idea of Alfred as an artist ;; [i was gonna do this with ereri,, but amebela is just sdlgh so here we are heh uwu] tell me what you think! \owo/**

_**~ Lovely Kacey Faith**_


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